This blog post is dedicated to all of the weekend Facebook updates that basically go as follows:
“Today the significant other(s) and I partook in socially acceptable activity A in the wee hours of the morning, now we are performing socially acceptable activity B while a non-microwaved dinner cooks upon itself for future consumption, and I’m looking forward to socially accepted activity C in the evening (emoticon/life is good).
“My significant other did this and this and this and this and this for ME and I love significant other so much and significant other is so great and it’s been the best x years of my life with significant other and significant other, you never fart and you never stink and if the toilet were to clog I KNOW it never could have been you that clogged it!”
I get it friends, your life is going tremendously smooth, your relationship is one to model all relationships after, all your plans are going off without a hitch and you have successfully transitioned from a productive week in the office to a productive weekend with the family.
And by productive I mean boring and I mean no one, no matter how hard they try to muster it up, could possibly give half of a shit.
For instance, my husband gave to me a mini rose plant this Valentines.
Maybe it’s a symbol of how our love is alive and growing, not like those sawed off dead roses other chumps get their squeezes.
Or maybe it was cheaper than actual roses, or more expensive, or maybe the actual roses were blocked by an annoying baby-ogler with whom my busy life partner did not wish to engage in conversation with about gender and teeth and months and why his child only wore one shoe. Who am I to know?
All I know is that no one cares my husband bought me a mini rose plant.
My desire for status updates to include a little edge, a dash of drama, and a sense of humor aside, these mollusk-level posts cause me to question why it is that life going smoothly dictates happiness for so many?
It certainly dictates my happiness.
Just ask my hub.
The plan I had this morning was to go to yoga at the Y. This plan would serve multiple purposes which is my favorite TYPE of plan.
I get to do yoga with the elderly and give my eyeballs a good stretch while my boy blows off steam in child care the only way he knows how which is to make an unholy mess, someone ELSE cleans the mess, AND my husband gets some space to himself.
A trifecta of life-is-good.
But it’s blistering cold outside and I need to let my car warm up, and my car heater only seems to work when it’s warm out and my 1 year old son checks the clock, 8:15, senses I need to be somewhere at 8:30, and doesn’t want to be put down.
So while I try to put on yoga pants without dropping him, ripping my pants or peeing my pants, my husband asks me what our wireless password is.
If I were presented with the opportunity to go back in time and undo ONE thing that I’ve done wrong in my life, it would be to never associate myself with a fu@$ing wireless password.
I cannot memorize the thing most days and if I can, trying to pass this case-sensitive information along orally is like playing telephone with Denis Rodman.
So with all the peeps coming in and out of my house, I just hand them the slip of paper that came with the damn router with the password already on it.
But this morning, as my small window of life-is-good closes, I can not find the fu$&ing slip of paper.
And even though my patient husband is telling me he doesn’t need the password and is now holding our son so I can get my yoga pants on, I’m now on a mission to find the tiny bastard piece of paper on principle because it’salwaysinthesamespotandnowit’smissingandifIdon’tfinditI’llgobananas!!!!
Life is good.
I tiptoe into yoga, ignoring the irritated looks for arriving late while sending the psychic message that a true yogi accepts disruption as part of their practice.
Overhearing screams from beyond the adjacent wall, I disrupt the class again to make sure it’s not my son.
Life is good.
The red-headed woman on the mat next to me seems familiar and I spend the whole breathing portion trying to place her, finally realizing she is the physicians assistant at the urgent care center who first informed me I was with child.
“You’re pregnant,” she said in such a way that the word “pregnant” could have easily been replaced with “Herpies-ridden” or “really a man”.
She then went on to prescribe an emergency pelvic ultra sound, making it about a $500 pregnancy test.
I know pregnancy isn’t always the best news so she had to be wary, and she was just playing it safe prescribing the ultra sound, but I realized then that I was still bitter.
I sort of wished the person telling me I was carrying my first child would jump for joy and fart balloons as she delivered the news, and I never like spending $500 unless there is a promise of a beach or a diamond-studded wheelbarrow at the end of it.
So stretching our foreheads side-by-side made me see her for a person. I decided after class I would introduce myself, herd her over to child care and introduce her to my healthy kid that she played a small part in bringing into the world. Thus completing a small circle within the circle of life together.
If need be, I would poke her in the ribs until she showed some enthusiasm.
Life is good.
She left class early before I had the chance, but I still felt good and tingly about the whole thing.
All of this is to say that some days things go my way and life is good, some days they don’t and I will force life to be good, and some days things go really bad and nothing is good and life is not good and if, on one of those particular days, I see another mundane life-is-good post from one of my friends, I can’t promise a naked big-bird-headed singing telegram won’t appear on their doorstep to give them something interesting to tell people about.